


Maybe Haunted Houses Aren't to My Tastes (But You Certainly Are)

by wmblake



Series: Parkner Halloween Week 2019 [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dorks, Halloween, Haunted House, M/M, parkner halloween week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 12:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21179090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wmblake/pseuds/wmblake
Summary: Harley goes with Peter to a haunted house, smiles at his running commentary on the costumes, the make-up, the decor. Of course, it can't all run so smoothly. But it's a good night anyway—better, once they leave.





	Maybe Haunted Houses Aren't to My Tastes (But You Certainly Are)

"Look at that!" Peter gasped. Harley looked over at someone dressed as a zombie hag, skin sloughing off the side of their face. "The amount of time that must have taken. The wax! I mean, I'm sure the dim lighting helps because detailing that to look authentic can be a pain, but still!"

Harley nodded along, stomach churning. "Yeah. Pretty freaky."

"They put in a lot of effort this year." Peter grinned. "C'mon, let's go see the rest." He wound his fingers around Harley's sleeve.

Harley smiled. "Sounds good, darlin'."

The lights dimmed as they traveled room to room. Peter pointed and gawked and laughed at the effects, the fake injuries and supernatural attributes and corpses, his hand warm against Harley's wrist. Harley smiled and nodded and hummed, but his eyes flicked over the corners of each room, watching the shadows grow and deepen, reaching out like snares, tendrils—

Peter commented on each room. He pointed out interesting make-up or decor choices, the various styles of the rooms, on movies or books or events that the rooms referenced—keeping his hand around Harley’s wrist as they walked. _He probably forgot,_ Harley rationalized.

The air cooled as they went. Fewer and fewer people walked the rooms. Harley pressed his arm against Peter’s, thankful for his hand around his wrist.

“Cold?” Peter asked with a small smile. Harley bit his lip. He nodded. “Want my sweater?”

Peter let go of Harley’s wrist. Harley clenched his hands, took a deep breath. Peter held out his sweater. Harley took wit with a grateful smile and pulled it over his head.

“Thanks,” he said.

“No problem. Sorry I didn’t realize it would get so cold, I would’ve told you to bring your own.” Peter chuckled, walking to the next room. “It’s getting pretty dark, too. I mean, makes sense, the unknown is always more scary, and it also means less effort on details, but there’s got to be a point when—”

The door slammed behind them.

Harley jumped with a sharp inhale. Dug his nails into his palms. Stared, wide-eyed, at the door.

“Huh,” Peter hummed. He looked around the room. “You think it’s some kind of escape room? Or are there actors waiting and hiding to jump out at us?”

The lights blacked out.

Peter laughed.

Harley bit his tongue. Swallowed. Flicked his eyes about, looking for something—anything—lit, any sense of _anything_ not swathed in darkness, anything that he could see, please, God, just—he jolted. Realized, belatedly, that Peter had tried to get his attention, tried to put a hand on his arm.

“Steady there,” he said, voice soft and low. “Harley? You all right?” Harley made a noncommittal sound. “… you want to head out?”

Harley could hear his frown. “No, no, you’re havin’ fun, I don’t want to—”

“Are you having fun?” A pause. “Were you at least having fun before the lights shut off?”

He chewed his lip. “I liked listening to you talk about the costumes and decorations.” He shrugged. “I like spending time with you, I just—”

A banging resounded from behind the walls.

Harley flinched. “I just—can’t do this.” _Not here, not now._

“Okay. Okay, we’ll get out then. The door was just over here. I’m sure there’s an exit for people who don’t want to go through the rest of the house, we’ll just head out, okay? Sound good? I’m gonna—can I, uh, hold your hand?”

Harley snorted, on the edge of hysterical. “Wow, _the_ Peter Parker is askin’ if he can hold my hand, I must be the luckiest person alive—”

“I’m just trying to help—if—”

“No, no, I—it—I wasn’t—it wasn’t a no, Peter.”

A pause.

“Oh.”

Harley waited. Bit his lip. A hand lighted on his arm. Gently slid down to his hand. Hesitated.

Tangled their fingers together.

“Peter?”

“I’m here.”

“… thank you.”

“No problem, Harls. Let’s get out of here.”

Harley nodded. He took a deep breath.

“Do you hear that?” Peter asked. Harley furrowed his brow.

“Hear what?”

“I … I don’t know. It’s like a—low drone, some kind of—white noise, maybe?”

Harley listened until the silence made his ears ring. “I don’t hear anythin’.” Peter gave an acknowledging hum. He squeezed Harley’s hand.

“Let’s worry about getting out of here.”

Something hissed in the dark. Harley pressed into Peter’s side. The air thickened, or maybe he just struggled with breathing, chest tight, each breath taking effort, smelling stale—a faint red glow illuminated just the edges of the room—fog hung in the air, hazy. Harley closed his eyes.

He heard a low whirring grow louder. Heard the click of something mechanical. “Careless kids,” some scratchy voice intoned, “don’t you know—”

“Actually, we’d like to leave,” Peter cut in. “The set-up is really cool and you’ve got some great effects going on, but—it’s later than we realized and we’d like to get going.”

“Oh.” The voice changed to regular-sounding, probably someone about college-age. Harley opened his eyes. Someone dressed as a ghost—poltergeist?—stood not too far from them. The ghost shrugged. “Okay. Go through the door and take the right. It’ll lead right out.”

“Thanks.” Peter smiled. “Nice costume.” He nodded to the actor once before leading Harley out of the room. Taking the right put them into a well-lit hallway and Harley sighed, relieved.

“… next year, let’s just stick with a pumpkin patch or somethin’, yeah?” He looked to Peter with a small, strained smile. “For now, let’s go get milkshakes.”

Peter watched Harley’s face a moment, but he nodded. “Sounds good to me. I’ll drive.”

The two walked out of the haunted house and to the car, Peter fidgeting beside Harley the whole way. He relaxed once they were in the car and on their way, but the silence made Harley shift in his seat, the fabric rubbing the wrong way on his hands, skin too warm to touch anything comfortably.

“… you’re okay, right?” Peter asked, a turn or two away from the nearest McDonald’s.

“Uh. Yeah.” Harley stared out the window.

“I didn’t—I’m sorry. I didn’t think—I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not your fault, darlin’, stop worryin’ ‘bout it.”

“But—”

“Peter.”

He stopped protesting. Pulled up to the McDonald’s drive-thru. “Chocolate, right?”

Harley smiled. “Yeah.”

Peter ordered two large milkshakes—refused to let Harley pay for his own—and they were out of the McDonald’s parking lot soon after. “Wanna just go for a drive for a bit?”

Harley shrugged. “Sure.”

They headed north, away from the city. Peter chewed on his lip. Harley tried to ignore it, but the silence reverberated through the car, making his ears ring again.

“Just ask,” he said.

“What?”

“Whatever it is that’s botherin’ you. Or on your mind. You’re thinkin’ so loud, not only can I see smoke comin’ from your ears, but I can practically hear you too.”

“… why’d you come to the haunted house with me?”

“You seemed excited.”

“Yeah, but I could have gone with Ned, or MJ, or by myself, but—you said you’d come with me.”

Harley frowned. “You asked me to come with you.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think—I didn’t—Harls. Are you … are you afraid of the dark?”

He bit his lip. Looked out the window. “Sometimes, I guess,” he said. “Not—not when it’s somewhere I know, or somewhere I feel safe, but—” He shrugged. “Shit happens, y’know? Stuff reminds you of other stuff, and—y’know?”

“… yeah. I—I still can’t—small spaces. They remind me of—getting trapped.”

“What a pair we make.”

Peter gave a weak snort. “Yeah … you still haven’t told me why you came with me, though. Haunted house aren’t—notorious for being well-lit.”

“… I wanted to spend time with you.” Harley picked at his sleeve—or, the sleeve of Peter’s sweater. “I … liked that you asked me, ‘stead of Ned or MJ or any of your other friends.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Well, we’ll just have to go somewhere else together, then. Maybe a cafe. Or a diner. Someplace not small and not dark.”

“Not small and not dark sounds good.” Harley smiled. “But you’ve got to let me pay for myself next time.”

“Really, Mr. Stark’s paying for us either way, so it doesn’t matter much who pays, does it?”

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Well, by _principle,_ the person who asks the other person out pays for the meal, so—”

“The person who what?”

“Uh. I thought—did I—I mean, only—only if you wanted, but I—I just thought—” Peter stammered. “Is that not what—you meant? Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“No. No. I mean.” Harley closed his eyes. “I’m not sayin’ no. I just. Didn’t know that’s what you were askin’.” He smiled. “Be more explicit next time, yeah?”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah.” Peter grinned. “Harley?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you go out to dinner with me sometime?”

“I’d love to.”


End file.
